Crumpled Memories

Zero's footsteps echoed lightly as he ambled out of the school gate, lost in his thoughts about the day. Suddenly, a heavy hand thudded onto his back, jolting him from his reverie.

"Hey Zero, fancy a game of soccer?" Mike, with his infectious energy, grinned from ear to ear, his eyes shining with the promise of a fun game.

Zero shook his head, smiling apologetically. "Sorry, Mike. I need to head home and study."

Mike then said" Zero why don't you just live in the academy dorm? why do you have to go back every time?"

Zero answered "hmm... it's just a thing I preferred, and I studied better in my place"

Mike scoffed good-naturedly, his broad shoulders shaking with laughter. "Man, you've been buried in those books since our entire first year! Now that you ranked up from 32nd place to 19th place in the class, shouldn't you take a breather in our second year?"

Zero chuckled, "I'll consider it once I get a bit closer to your ranking Mike."

Mike threw his head back and laughed, playfully punching Zero's arm. "C'mon, just one game! please!!"

Zero answered, "Sorry Mike, maybe next time, I'll treat you to a meal too."

"Really? You can't take it back now!!" Mike said.

"yea yeah," Zero replied.

With that, Zero waved Mike goodbye and began his familiar walk home. The once-bustling school grounds soon gave way to the quieter residential streets. Row upon row of brick houses lined the way, interspersed occasionally by a convenience store or a small park where children usually played.

Today, the air felt different, dense, and laden with a peculiar heaviness he couldn't quite identify.

About twenty minutes into his walk, right after he passed Mrs. Mitchell's old bookstore, he noticed an abnormal gathering up ahead. The intersection that he typically crossed, leading to the cozy avenue where his home was located, was blocked by a crowd. A throng of people had gathered, their faces painted with looks of shock, curiosity, and sorrow. Faint sirens wailed in the distance.

From among the murmurs, he caught snippets of whispered conversations. "Such a horrific crash," said a middle-aged woman, clutching her grocery bags close to her chest.

A younger man, probably in his twenties, with a skateboard tucked under his arm, commented, "I've never seen anything like this in our neighborhood."

Another voice, shaky and filled with disbelief, added, "Those poor souls. I hope they made it out okay."

Feeling a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach, Zero quickened his pace, pushing gently but firmly through the onlookers. "Excuse me, coming through," he mumbled, his voice tinged with urgency as he tried to get a clearer view of what had caused such a commotion.

A stern-faced cop stepped in his way, hand outstretched. "Hey kid, this isn't a place for you. It's pretty messy."

"I need to pass, sir," Zero replied, a knot of anxiety forming in his stomach. Without waiting for a response, he sidestepped the officer and continued pushing through.

And then he saw it.

A mangled black car lay twisted at an odd angle, its once shiny surface now marred with dents, scratches, and dark stains. The sheer force of the impact had crumpled it, rendering it nearly unrecognizable. But what made Zero's heart plummet was the familiar license plate - the same one he'd memorized as a child.

The scene before him was chaotic. Flashing red and blue lights from the police vehicles painted eerie patterns on the ground. Nearby, an ambulance, its siren wailing a mournful cry, had paramedics rushing around, attending to those who needed medical attention. Amidst the screeching sirens, distant cries, and hushed whispers of the onlookers, the weight of reality threatened to crash down on Zero.

Across the accident site, two firefighters were attempting to use the jaws of life, trying desperately to pry open the passenger door of the black car. Another firefighter was conversing with a paramedic, his face etched with concern and urgency. Every so often, the radio on his belt crackled to life with updates.

The black car was pinned under a large red van with the plate number 8141. The van's hood was bent grotesquely upward, steam rising from its engine. Glass shards from shattered windows lay scattered like diamonds on the wet asphalt, reflecting the emergency lights in a kaleidoscope of colors.

Nearby, a woman clutched a little girl to her chest, shielding her eyes from the gruesome scene. "It's bad," she whispered to a man beside her, who held a hand to his mouth, his face pallid.

A cop, his face lined with years of witnessing tragedies, directed traffic away from the crash site. Speaking into his radio, he said, "We're going to need more units here. The crowd's getting bigger, and we need to keep the scene clear."

Another officer was trying to comfort a sobbing teenager, likely a witness. "I saw the whole thing... It happened so fast," the teen choked out, the weight of what he'd witnessed evident in his tear-filled eyes.

As Zero took in the calamity before him, his vision started to blur, the reality of the scene intertwining with the traumatic realization. The license plate of the mangled black car was the same sequence of letters and numbers he'd idly read out loud countless times while playing in their driveway. It was their family car.

The skies above seemed to darken, as if the very universe mourned with Zero.

The usual hustle and bustle of the street faded into obscurity, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence punctuated only by the distant wailing of sirens and murmured condolences.

The sharp scent of gasoline mixed with the metallic tinge of blood filled the air, creating a suffocating aroma that choked Zero's breaths.

The wet asphalt beneath him seemed colder, crueler, as if it sought to drag him into its depths. Each raindrop felt heavier, like droplets of sorrow sent from the heavens.

His guttural cry, a testament to his soul's agony, pierced through the ambient noise, making heads turn and hearts ache. "No, no, no," he whispered, the words a prayer, a plea, a cry of denial.

A police officer, her face etched with genuine concern, approached Zero. She knelt beside him, her voice soft, but it barely registered in his ears. "Hey kid, are you okay? Can you hear me?"

Another onlooker, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair, shook his head solemnly. "Poor child," he whispered to a young woman beside him, tears forming in his eyes, "I think it's his family in that car."

The young woman, her hand covering her mouth in shock, nodded. "This is too cruel. No child should ever have to experience this."

Nearby, a mother held her child closer, tears streaming down her face as she looked at Zero with profound sadness. "That could've been us," she murmured, kissing her child's forehead, her embrace tightening.

And there, in the center of the tumult, amidst the shattered glass, twisted metal, and broken dreams, lay Zero – a boy thrust into a nightmarish reality, his heart bleeding onto the rain-soaked ground.

*BEEEP BEEEP BEEEP*

The sharp sound of his phone's alarm pierced through the silence, violently dragging Zero back to the realm of the living. For a moment, he lay still, his heartbeat thundering in his ears, drowning out the residual echoes of his nightmare.

He inhaled deeply, his fingers trembling as they brushed away the cold sweat that had plastered his hair to his forehead. Pulling his hands away, Zero stared at them for a split second, half-expecting to see the tangible remnants of his dream. But there was nothing. Just the pale glow of the room, diffused by his digital clock, announcing the ungodly hour: 2 am.

Sighing heavily, he muttered, "It was just a dream...from my past life..." He cradled his face in his hands, attempting to massage away the vestiges of fear and pain. But the cruel grip of the dream refused to fade entirely.

Suddenly, his phone's screen lit up, casting a pale blue light across the room, accompanied by the incessant beeping.

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Calm Mind Rank F has detected an unstable mind and emotion, the skill will be activated.

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Wiping away the tears that had unknowingly formed, Zero tried to push the lingering sensations aside. He had to focus. There were more pressing matters at hand.

He reached for his phone and swiped open the flood of messages from Tom. He had been waiting for this – information on the Knifepoint gang. Yet, the timing couldn't have been more eerie.